


It's just Routine.

by Onlymostydead



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe GTA, Blood, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Gore, Minor Character Death, Murder, The Vagabond, Torture, Well not really Rye, killing for fun, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymostydead/pseuds/Onlymostydead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn't bother him at all.<br/>It was part of a routine, after all.</p>
<p>The blood would be difficult to clean, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's just Routine.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't condone this. This was an experiment in writing/writing practice/whatever you want to call this.  
> If you are bothered by gore or body horror or anything of the sort please do not read this.  
> Please don't read this if you have a tendency to want to torture/kill people. I don't want to give anyone ideas.
> 
> WARNING: I am not forcing you to read this. If you read this I am not responsible for anything that happens. That being said, please read with discretion.

It's a cycle.  
Ryan was always orderly and punctual, everything set by routine.  
He always woke up early, eating the leftovers from last night for breakfast and drink a cup of coffee. He always drank his coffee black, the taste didn't matter, only the energy. Get ready for the day. Carefully he would paint the design on his face. He coated his hair with product until it was black, pulling it back into a ponytail.  
Shrug on the jacket and pull on the mask.  
Every morning like clockwork he would hit a shop.  
Never a big one, mind you, just a little something to wake him up.  
Make sure no one survives.   
Go home and wash up, put the Vagabond away.  
Run some errands Ryan needed to complete.  
Skip lunch, it wasn't needed.  
Go back to the apartment around mid-afternoon. Check the mail.   
Then he would plan.  
Depending on the night that was all he did. Prepare for the next big hit, cut old ties. Making sure there were no loose strings.  
Or perhaps he would write a list of things he wanted to try out on his next victims, the unfortunate ones he chose to live a bit longer than others.  
Some nights he would hit somewhere else. Somewhere bigger that took weeks of careful planning.

Or this.

Putting on he Vagabond, he carefully reapplied the face paint and does his hair once more. Put on the mask and the jacket, tucking his list into his pocket.  
Without fail he always checks the list before leaving the apartment, circling one of the items written there in careful handwriting.

***

When he reaches the storage box he is greeted by silence from inside.  
One of the few things that weren't constant- people were always reacting differently than others. Some scream, others let loose pitiful sobs. A few even try to fight him. Some search desperately for a way to escape their bonds, others give up and accept their fate.   
Obviously, this was one of the last cases.   
Though different, one quickly learned how to respond, what worked on them. Each human may be different, but they are all fundamentally the same.  
For the sake of theatricality he unlocked the storage unit slowly, making sure every movement made a satisfying click. He lowered the chain to the ground before releasing it, letting it make adequate noise.  
Slowly he pushed open the doors just enough to let him through, making a long creaking noise. Quickly and efficiently he locked them behind him.

Click

Click

Click

He footsteps pierced the air, echoing faintly.

Click click

His prisoners surely recognized the sound of the Vagabond cocking his gun. Vaguely he made out the shape of them, huddled together in the corner.

Click

He switched the flashlight on, focusing the beam on the prisoners.  
His decision had already been made, he set down the light and made his way to the larger of the two.

"Tsk tsk"

He clicked his tongue twice, getting their attention.  
He gestured for them to stand.  
Slowly they did so, eyes already watering. Their hands fidgeted at their sides, face pale, eyes wide.

Without an ounce of hesitation the Vagabond stabbed them.

They cried out and lurched forward, curling in on themselves in a futile attempt to protect their stomach.  
The smaller of the two screamed, the sound drawing out into a prolonged sob.   
The Vagabond watched, unbothered as they slowly bled out from the clean hole through their abdomen. The blood coated his gloved hand and the knife.

It didn't bother him at all.  
It was part of a routine, after all.

The blood would be difficult to clean, though.

He knelt down at the bodies side, rolling it carefully onto its back. It's eyes were now glazed over, staring unblinking at the metal ceiling.  
He stripped off the shirt, quickly taking the knife and setting about cutting open its abdomen with it.  
The living one sobbed softly in the corner as he worked, removing the intestines and setting them down on the floor beside the body.

He glanced up at the ceiling, checking for the hook he had left there. Pleased to see it still hanging he turned his attention back to the scene before him.

"Tsk tsk."

He gestured for the other to stand. Hesitantly they did, seeming to realize that failing to do so would only result in more pain.   
The Vagabond took their face into his hand, turning their jaw up so they had to face him.  
Not bad looking, he noted. Long lashes, a nice curve to their nose, shapely lips. They opened their mouth now.

"What are you?" They sobbed, jaw quivering.

The Vagabond took advantage of this by opening their mouth further, holding it that way with one hand as he took out a more delicate knife with the other.  
An inexperienced person might assume it to be a throwing knife, but the balance was all wrong for that. No, this dainty knife was for the details.  
With careful precision he carved out their tongue, shushing them when they screamed.   
He had let one like this go once, tongue cut out. He had gouged out that ones eyes, however, and he had no such plans with this one. No matter how fun it had been to watch them stumble.  
He lowered their head for a few moments, that they might not choke on their blood and die too soon.   
He took both of their hands in one of his, pleased who they offered no resistance. At this point the Vagabond wouldn't be surprised if they had been drugged. Their complacency almost wasn't natural.   
He knelt down and picked something up before leading them over to where the hook hung from the ceiling. Quickly he bound them to the hook by the wrists, using the entrails of the other to do so.  
He watched their eyes widen in horror as he tied them there in a secure knot, their mouth open to dry heave. Their empty stomach didn't allow for anything come up.  
The Vagabond met their eyes, looking deep inside and only seeing fear. He didn't smile, but the mask gave the illusion of a skeletal grin.  
Methodically he stripped them of their clothes. This didn't delight him, the fabric just got in the way.   
He watched as they struggled weakly against their bonds, their eyes wide in horror. Grabbing the longer string of intestines he began to bind them more efficiently, effectively limiting their breathing and binding their feet.  
They continued to struggle weakly, giving up on the endeavor quickly. Panting heavily, they let the blood run from their severed tongue with an open mouth. It dripped down their chin and onto their body, splattering their collarbones and chest.  
The Vagabond stepped back to admire his work, the blood running down the body, the way their eyes fluttered shut in silent resignation. He took out the small knife again and began to run it down their body, making only light cuts in their skin. Blood beaded slightly at the surface as he ran the knife down their arms, creating pretty patterns in their skin. They were quite pale by this point, almost gray.  
When they passed out the Vagabond slit their throat.  
Whether it had been from pain, shock, or blood loss it didn't matter. Their body would be far less fun to play with half-dead.  
Just like he did every time he had brought garbage bags; one for each body and one extra for anything that didn't fit. Carefully he unhooked the smaller, folding the corpse to fit in the bag. Assessing the larger he decided on using both bags, he expanded on the original wound. With the larger knife he split the body, putting each in a bag and tying it off.

He always told himself he would clean up the blood.

He never does.

Rather he throws the bags over his shoulder and deposits them in the nearest dumpster, careful to remember to take everything he brought into the storage box.

Then he goes back to his apartment. Slowly he washes of the blood from his clothes, and washes the Vagabond from his face and hair.

He cooks and eats dinner, always careful to make enough for the next morning.

And he goes to sleep, just do do it all again in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me being a more reasonable human being than I seem like I am here on Tumblr at Supertinydom, Comments are love?


End file.
